


Fresh as Fuck

by stale_mnms



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, One Shot, arthur is an asshole, john is one greasy boy, not so witty banter, toothpaste
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-28 18:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18761857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stale_mnms/pseuds/stale_mnms
Summary: John Marston, for the first time in his life, uses toothpaste.





	Fresh as Fuck

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: i am not affiliated with R* nor do i own any of these characters!!

The job went well. A pair of mining investors (or something of that nature) were so riddled with arrogance that they traversed the countryside draped in accessories of gold and silver and every metal that’s worth a penny in America. The men were armed, but it was clear that neither one had ever angled the at another human being. That lovely gesture was reserved for the deer whose heads were mounted on their parlor walls, probably. The rich bastards. A clean, one man job, in and out. John didn’t like killing much, but the opportunity was too damn beautiful to pass up. It was an outlaw’s wet dream.

So, the job went _real_ well. The kind of well that allowed for a little silly spending.

…

“Ten dollars?!”

“It was shipped in from Connecticut, sir.”

John rolled the small jar between his palms. He frowned at the clerk.

“You’re tellin' me I’m supposed to pay ten dollars for what looks like bird shit in a bottle?”

“ _Toothpaste_ , sir,” The clerk corrected with poorly hidden exasperation. “It’s toothpaste, and frankly, I don’t think you could stand to lose anything from trying some.”

“I’m gonna pretend like you didn’t say that,” He murmured. He pulled a crumpled wad of one dollar bills, slapped them by the till, and trudged out of the general store.

Freed from the humiliation of discussing his hygiene, John read the label of the jar with more refined attention.

_‘Tastes good and keeps the mouth tasting good. Of course, it’s antiseptic and all that the most scientific modern tooth cleanser can be, but it’s the taste that people like so much which has kept Dr. Sheffield’s the leading Dentifrice since 1850.’_

“My god,” He snorted and ran a hand over Old Boy’s mane. “You’d think they’re sellin’ cherry flavored absinthe the way they talk about this stuff.”

John grabbed the horn of the saddle, cans of gun oil, packs of revolver cartridges, and a jar of toothpaste jangling together in his satchel as he mounted his steed. The disjointed contents of his bag reflected strongly on John’s own character, and he resented it. The bullets were the same brand as the first one he placed in a stranger’s forehead when he was 11. The gun oil secured John’s intent to continue murdering, robbing, conning. His outlaw life. His _free_ life. The little glass jar of toothpaste was the domestic life Abigail desperately wanted with him and the boy.

“Woaaahhh. Okay, boy,” John tugged the reins back as Old Boy approached the hitching area. He swung the ropes over the post, slid himself over the side of his horse, and felt the heels of his boots squelch in the swampy mud of Southern Lemoyne. John curled his lip at the ground in disgust. He did not understand how anyone could stand to live here. Permanently. By choice.

He cringed with every squishy step as he trudged towards the stream. From his satchel, he dug out the jar of toothpaste.

“Alright. Do something new every day, I suppose,” He mumbled blandly to himself.

He unscrewed the metal cap. It fell to the marshy shore with a ‘plop’. John dipped his finger into the container, scooping out a generous line of the white paste. He sniffed it, shrugged, and shoved his finger in his mouth.

It tasted like crushed mint leaves mixed with sugar and soap. Honestly, he didn’t mind it, but ten dollars was still an absolute rip-off. John swiveled his finger around aimlessly. He immediately felt the effects. Yesterday’s canned peaches, charred heron meat, and rum were all washed clean and replaced with a feeling of something… fresh. John reached for another finger full.

“The hell are you doing, Marston?”

John flickered his eyes back. Arthur. Good moments couldn’t last forever, he supposed. He returned his attention to his task, not wanting to give the older man the satisfaction of his full attention.

“Practicing for the opera,” John said between his fingers “What does it look like?”

He heard the pad of footsteps come closer. From the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur ducking his head down for a brief moment.

“Jesus!”

“What.” John mouthed through thick globs of toothpaste.

“I just… I never thought I’d see the day,” He imagined the vacant expression on Arthur’s face, save for the small upturned corners of his mouth. The man could get John riled up without even looking at him. He despised the itch of anger Arthur put in his chest just as much as he craved it. “Our very own John Marston cleaning himself without Miss Grimshaw holding him over the wash bin.”

John huffed. Finally, he stood, still clutching the jar of toothpaste in his hand. Arthur was far closer than he anticipated, his face barely a foot’s length away. The thought of Arthur’s god-awful smug face was now a reality, in full color and saturation. Like a dirty paintbrush dipped in clear water, the older man’s features invaded his head. Two-day-old stubble, thick eyebrows that were always partially furrowed, a nose that was broken at least a couple times in its life. A rugged face that could only belong to a man who lived a rugged life. The only soft thing about him was his eyes. Those, which sat blue and kindly on his face, were staring straight into his own He didn’t step away.

“Funny,” John deadpanned. He spat the toothpaste into the stream, not breaking eye contact with him.

Arthur squinted. He grabbed John by the chin.

“And you,” The older man swiped an abandoned trail of toothpaste from John’s bottom lip. “Are an absolute charmer, Johnny boy.”

John waited for Arthur to drop his hand, to move away, to continue his daily pacing around the campgrounds. He didn’t, though. His hand sat there, holding his chin. A dark, buried, and frankly strange part of John wanted to cock his head. Rub his cheeks into Arthur’s palm, feel the callouses and lines of the man’s fingers. Instead, he kept his head and dignity straight. He let himself feel the heat of Arthur soak down his chin and burn down his chin like a match dropped in grassy plains.

John drew his gaze up to meet the other man’s eyes, and then Arthur was kissing him.

His lips. His own lips. Were pressed against Arthur’s lips. In a non-accidental scenario.

John’s eyes darted back and forth only to be greeted by a soft patch of Arthur’s cheek and dark eyelashes under tensed eyelids. These parts were far closer than he’d ever think he’d see on Arthur, or _any_ man for that matter. He felt the man’s tongue, warm and wet, skimming his bottom lip. It wasn’t much different from kissing a woman. Except for the friction of Arthur’s stubble against his own. Except for the large hand that was now wrapped around half his neck. Except for having to push himself up on his toes in order to reciprocate. Except for the solid wall of muscles that met his chest rather than the soft press of breasts. Except for the faint press of _something_ by his hip bone.

John let his eyes shut. He let himself lean into Arthur’s lips. He let the jar drop from his hands.

It shattered. 

Arthur pulled him away by the back of his neck. Like nothing had happened, Arthur resumed a mocking half-smile.

“Oh, John, look what you done now,” He shook his head at the scattered shards of glass and tutted.

John, dazed, just stared.

“You’d better buy a new jar,” Arthur continued. “I don’t know if I’d like you as much, tastin’ like sour whiskey n' all.”

He gave John a pat on the back that was more brotherly than intimate and started off towards camp. John looked down at the mess, up at Arthur’s back, and back down again.

“That goddamn bastard.”

…

Needless to say, John returned from town a second time that day with a heavier satchel, a lighter wallet, and thirty-two shining teeth.

**Author's Note:**

> honestly this one shot is all over the place, and i have no excuses for it. i was completely sober and awake while writing this. so... SORRY! anyway, if you have any questions or comments about toothpaste history/origins/alternatives, hmu bc im now very knowledgable in that area ;)


End file.
